[center][h2][color=Mediumslateblue]Arghast, Herald of the Abyss[/color][/h2]

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The midnight wings of the raven temporarily occluded the moonlight, shrouding the stairwell where Arghast stood. Still more voices lingered, boisterous and ripe with comradery.
Indeed, even as he lurked beneath the bonfire, a new undead seemed to be delivered from the obsidian sky. Arghast wondered how long he'd been absent from the surface, for Firelink Shrine to have begun to harbor such numbers. His curiosity was satiated by a most simplistic of notions; that his coveting of humanity may yet be requited by. With this, he banished any inquiring thought. He suspected, by their nature, that some party of faithful undead had freed themselves from the asylum. Perhaps that snow-capped dungeon had collapsed altogether; toppled from that high cliff where it stood its silent vigil against the curse.

Arghast awoke himself from the fancy, keen that his presence had been made known to the group, and sought not to tarry. He was now, as so many times before, another mere nomad of Lordran; impartial, guideless. Rising from his reclined posture, he brought both axe and blade to level, and started up the stairs, his footsteps now even and solid upon the corroded stone. Nearing the culmination of the staircase, his arm instinctively rose to cover his view plate from the unfamiliar radiation from the bonfire before clearing the final few steps.

His was a ghastly a sight as ever to behold. What the dimness below had done to conceal his appearance, the embers of the flame undid. His armor, which appeared a sort of charcoal black when pierced with light, allowed its every jagged crevice to be illuminated. The repellent design of a skull upon his helmet stared upon the band blankly; spattered across its side were traces of old blood. Also bleached in the sanguine liquid were his hatchet and sword, both making apparent their relative age and lengthy degree of use. Perhaps most off-putting of his aura was the mass of leathery tissue, appearing torn, bruised, scarred and gashed, that implicated itself as his skin. In the incandescence of the flame, a sickly grey tone was seen about the aged segments of wounded flesh, whereas new sores appeared glazed with a membranous liquid, suffocating in the open air. 

This wraith scanned the patrons of the bonfire, focusing on none for much longer than a few moments, as they in turn watched him. His eyes fell finally upon the Firekeeper, whom he eyed with some undecipherable vexation beneath his helmet. Arghast allowed the hilts of his weapons to loosen in his hands, letting their offensive side lightly tap the ground, as to suggestive passiveness.